Shackled
by Red Tigress
Summary: Kink Meme fill for "They didn't initially get along that well, too different, and Athos didn't like anyone, but then there was that time they ended up on the run, manacled together, and had to work it out."


_A/N: This has nothing to do with the continuity of my other long Musketeers story, "Forged Bonds". Entirely new sequence of events. I actually really do like dogs, but there is a dog attack in this fic, so take heed of that if that's something that upsets you. I don't know how this turned into 18 pages, but I hope you enjoy. It was a good challenge for me to write Athos. Many, MANY thanks to Tenebrielle for the beta, and Meskeet and Isiliarma for the encouraged support._

* * *

Athos awoke to the unpleasant sensation of being dragged through the dirt without care or consideration. His head was throbbing like someone had it in a vice and he struggled to remember what had happened. He moaned blearily as he was dragged over a rock, whoever was pulling him tugging extra hard on his wrists. He turned his head and took in the man dragging him. Black cloak, military-issue boots and weapons…

_Spaniard_, his mind supplied.

He tried to twist away from the man's hold in a half-able attempt at self-preservation and was rewarded with a quick kick to his ribs that had him doubling over. The man dropped his arms to the ground and gave him another kick that would ensure Athos spent the next few minutes breathing through the pain it caused. He gasped, trying to suck in breath, and heard the clanking of shackles coming closer. Someone grabbed his left wrist, pulling it away from his body. He felt the cold, unyielding iron clasp shut around his wrist.

His left ankle was next. Someone pulled the boots off his feet so that the iron would be sure to chafe, and further discourage escape (he noted unpleasantly through his fog of pain). He was spun around on his back, and he lifted his head to see the other end of the short chain attached to another person's ankle. The person had not moved, but Athos saw the Musketeer pauldron on their shoulder. He lifted himself up to his elbows, taking in the face of his unconscious fellow prisoner.

He blinked in surprise when he saw it was Porthos Du Vallon.

* * *

Two hours earlier, Porthos had been bored beyond reason. He and Athos had already spent a full day together in near silence, with at least four more to go before they joined up with another part of the regiment in Bordeux. It had been miserable. Porthos had tried to make a little bit of small talk with Athos at first, but he couldn't really find anything they shared an interest in. To him, Athos was a sullen, introverted drunk, who could get away with his dour behavior because his skill with the sword was unrivaled.

His questions had been met with one word answers or silence, until Porthos had just given up. He wasn't sure if Athos didn't like anyone or just him. Porthos wasn't usually one to let other people's opinions of him ruin his day, but at least when someone insulted him he could have a bit of fun at their expense. Athos' silence was just…unnerving.

The few interactions he'd already had with Athos had also led Porthos to believe he maybe had been descended from nobility or at least had been around it for a long time. His speech was very good (even for a regiment that mostly took in third or fourth sons of nobility), his swordsmanship was unparalleled, and he seemed to consistently have enough coin to put away on drink. It was only the man's constant disheveled appearance that made Porthos question his observations, but that could have just been a side effect from constantly being hungover.

They had been riding a few hours already, Porthos lazily gazing at the scenery that passed them by a slow pace. It was early autumn and a cool wind filled the air. The leaves had only just started to change color, making the forests off to in the distance look like small, fiery explosions frozen in time. To the immediate right of the road, there were long waves of tall, yellow grass that whispered in the breeze, their constant companion for a few miles now.

Porthos' horse's ears swiveled and it raised its head attentively. Porthos looked in the direction of the grass for a fox. They'd seen a few on the ride already, and they always got the horse's attention. He didn't see any, so he patted the horse on the neck. Instead of lowering its head and walking on, the horse came to a dead stop.

Porthos, learning long ago to trust a well-trained horse's instincts, found his hand shifting to his sword. "Athos," he said quietly.

The other man reined up his own horse as he turned back to look at Porthos. Porthos' own gaze was fixed on the long grass. He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

Suddenly, the grass parted and his horse stomped a foot in irritation as a hare shot out right under it.

Porthos grunted, hands returning to his reins, and Athos turned around.

A shot rang out making Porthos flinch and his horse start. He drew his own pistol, but a second shot rang out and Athos' horse screamed as it fell to the ground. Porthos caught a dark shape out of the corner of his eye. He turned in his saddle and fired, rewarded with an immediate cry of pain. Suddenly, a man stood up in the grass, aiming a pistol at him. Porthos swung down from his horse (mostly falling) as the shot rang out, missing him.

As he landed on the ground, the air left his lungs with a _whoosh_. His horse may have been trained but it also had a decent sense of self-preservation and cantered off, leaving him in the middle of the road. He heard the clash of swords a short distance away, but he was too focused on trying not to get shot to pay attention to what Athos was doing. He rolled towards the grass, and heard a curse in Spanish. He pulled out his dagger and shot to his feet, hurling the weapon into the neck of a man who was still re-loading.

There was movement to his immediate left and he didn't spin fast enough to block the rifle butt that connected with his skull.

* * *

Athos' memory had come back to him fleetingly. He remembered the ambush and having his horse shot out from under him. He had escaped having his leg crushed by the horse's bulk, drawing his sword as he did so. He started a fight with one of the men, but someone had come up behind him while he was engaged and hit him over the back of the head. While he was dazed, they had grabbed him in a chokehold, effectively cutting off his air.

The Spaniards had thrown them into the back of a cart, and they were now heading South, away from their original route. Porthos hadn't woken until the cart stopped and they were roughly hauled out and onto the ground.

"Get up," one of the men said in heavily accented French. Athos sat up as Porthos groaned.

"He just woke up," Athos said pointing to Porthos. The man who had spoken regarded him coldly for a moment, before he kicked Athos' unbooted foot. Athos pulled it back, which yanked on the chains attached to Porthos' foot. Athos bit off a moan, before he got to his knees. "Get up," he told Porthos.

Porthos gave him a sour look which was made even more gruesome by the dried blood that had run down his temple. He seemed alert though, getting to his feet. He grimaced when he noticed his boots were gone and he was shackled to Athos.

The Spaniard leveled his pistol at them. "Don't try something," he growled. Three more men joined him, two also aiming their pistols at them. Athos glanced between them. Initially they all seemed well trained. After all, they had ambushed them without killing them, and effectively stopped them from running while they were chained together.

Athos eyed the stone building they were being led to. It was secluded, on the edge of the woods, away from the road. Doubtless they were being taken here to be tortured for information or to use as leverage at some other time. "We go in there, we may not come out," he mumbled to Porthos.

Porthos eyed him sideways as Athos received a quick prod to his back for his troubles. "Quiet," the soldier hissed. Athos glowered at him, but he could tell Porthos understood the message. How well they could execute it though, was a different matter. He would just have to hope Porthos caught on.

Athos suddenly fell to the ground, clutching his stomach in feigned pain and moaning loudly. A surprised look crossed Porthos' face briefly before the chains pulled him down to one knee as well.

"Get up, I said do not try something!" the commander yelled. He leveled his gun at Athos' head. Athos continued to groan loudly, and screwed his eyes shut.

"Uh, he's got, uh, sickness…" Porthos blathered. He mimed vomiting.

"If he no get up, I shoot him. Then you drag his body while it rots." Athos was momentarily distracted by the grizzly image, but returned to his senses when he heard the hammer of the pistol cock back.

Athos felt the chains pull him up, realizing a second later that it was because Porthos had lunged at the commander's legs. He didn't have time to utter a curse as they all went down in a tangle of limbs. Porthos punched the man savagely and Athos scrambled for his gun. He managed to wrest it out of the man's hand, but as he was turning to aim at the other soldiers the chain attached to his foot pulled him up short. He fired, but it went wide of his intended target.

The gun shot was enough to startle the other men and for a second they had the advantage. "UP!" Athos shouted, and Porthos grabbed the man's other gun, getting to his feet. Athos started to run, but stumbled when Porthos turned and fired the second gun at a soldier, hitting him in the chest. The man Athos had missed fired his own gun, but the stumble saved Athos' life as the bullet flew by harmlessly. "GO, GO, GO!"

They started running, both mindful of moving the feet shackled together at the same time, but it was slow. Shouts sounded behind them from the building. There must have been more Spanish soldiers inside that had heard the commotion.

They hit the tree line, and the chains around their ankles snagged on a fallen log. They both stumbled, and Athos felt the metal bite into his skin. He cursed, reaching back and untangling it. He looked up to catch a glimpse of the soldiers sprinting in their direction. The chain on his wrist was yanked savagely, and he looked up to see Porthos' worried eyes. "C'mon!" he urged.

They surged ahead, spurred on by the crashing in the undergrowth behind them. Athos could feel every rock and stick beneath the souls of his feet, but fear and determination kept him from paying attention to the pain.

Porthos abruptly pulled them to the left and Athos let out a grunt of indignation before he found his stride again. The chain dragged on his feet and Athos was too busy just trying to cover distance that he didn't notice the stick that was sticking straight up until he stepped on it.

He choked off a cry of pain, falling to one knee. Porthos, unprepared for the sudden stop in motion, fell with him. Unfortunately they were at the top of a hill and the momentum of the larger man propelled them both over the edge.

They bounced in a tangle of limbs, leather and metal. Their jackets were strong, protecting them from the worst of the dangers, but Athos felt every rock that slammed into his side or chest. He heard the grunts from Porthos and knew the other man probably felt the same.

They finally tumbled to the bottom of the hill and both lay there motionless for a minute, beathing harshly. The lull in the running let Athos focus on the bruises he had just acquired, along with the infinite cuts on his feet. He pulled himself up to his elbows, grimacing as he saw the stick still impaled in his left foot. It couldn't have been thicker than half an inch, but against the unprotected souls of his feet it _hurt._

Porthos was still getting his feet under him, and Athos took the opportunity to do something about the stick. He leaned forwards, wrapping shaking fingers around it. Exhaling slowly, he gave it a hard tug.

The feel of rough wood sliding out of delicate flesh was excruciating, and Athos bit back another scream and sat there for a few minutes, just breathing in and out through his nose.

When the pain had subsided slightly to just a fiery ache, he realized Porthos hadn't moved. He turned his head to look at the other man, slightly worried to see he was just sitting on his knees staring off at something with a blank look on his face.

"Porthos!" He hissed harsher than he intended. There was no response, and Athos reached out to tap his knee. Porthos started, blinking a few times before cringing and pinching the bridge of his nose. Athos saw his head had begun to bleed again. "Are you alright? We need to keep moving."

"Yeah," Porthos nodded, the clarity returning to his eyes. "Hit my head again. You?" he asked, looking to where Athos was holding his foot. Puncture wounds didn't leave a lot of blood, so at least they wouldn't leave much of a trail that way. Athos wasn't sure how long he could walk on it, though. He quickly ripped off part of his trouser leg, wrapping the cloth tightly around his foot.

"It will be fine, but we need to move. They're probably not far behind." Porthos grunted, and they both got to their feet. Athos hesitantly put weight on his injured foot. The wound was in the middle, so he found he could hobble along on the ball of his foot with the least amount of pain. He nodded to Porthos, and they continued off.

* * *

They continued on at a steady pace for a little over an hour. There were no sounds to indicate they were still being followed, but Porthos was sure the respite was temporary, at best.

The sun was setting and with it the temperature was also rapidly dropping. Porthos' head ached. Hitting it twice today had done him no favors, but at least he was awake. There was also the added pain of the shackles. Both his and Athos' feet dripped with dried blood, every step pulling on the wounds the cold metal had torn open. Athos' limp had become more pronounced, but at least he could walk.

Finally they came to a stream. Porthos saw Athos visibly sag with relief, but the man was too stubborn to sit down. "Let's rest here," Porthos said. They both practically collapsed.

Porthos drank first, then moved to place his bloody foot in the stream. The chain tugged on Athos, who glared at him. "Uh…sorry," Porthos gave him an impatient look. "Can I…" he motioned at the stream.

Athos extended his own foot, giving the chain some slack so Porthos could put his foot in the water. He sighed as the moving water cleansed away the dirt, grime and blood. Porthos winced slightly as it then burned through the open wound, but it was a good feeling.

"You should do this too," Porthos said. "Aramis says most of the time water is the best cure for any wound."

"Does he now?" Athos smiled somewhat wryly, moving his foot to trail after Porthos'. He hesitated, but then plunged his injured limb into the water with a sharp gasp.

Porthos automatically raised a hand with the intention of offering some physical reassurance, but then thought better. He didn't know how the man would take it. "How is it?" he asked instead.

"A minor annoyance," Athos mumbled. "Nothing serious."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Aramis always says that when things are serious."

"Well, I am not Aramis," Athos grumbled.

"Clearly," Porthos said before he could stop himself. "Err…" he trailed of, unsure of if he had committed some offense or not.

"I know that you two are good friends," Athos said, taking his foot out of the water. "And I am sorry I had to accompany you on this trip and not him." His tone was sour, and Porthos couldn't tell if he was actually angry at him or not. "But you and I are in the thick of it now, and we have nothing to rely on but each other. We'll have to trust one another."

"I trust you," Porthos argued.

Athos looked at him out of the corner of his eye, somewhat doubtfully. "Do you?"

Porthos became defensive. "Of course. I trust all the Musketeers with my life."

"What you say and what is in your heart seem to be two different things," Athos continued. "With the exception of Aramis, you often overcompensate for your uneasiness with your body language and voice. The difference between you with Aramis and you with any other member of the regiment is like night and day."

"And what about you?" Porthos growled. "You have not attempted to make any friends here, keeping to yourself and your drink."

An unreadable expression passed over Athos' face, but he remained silent, neither confirming or denying the accusation. Finally he sighed. "We should find some place to settle for the night. We will only lose ourselves in the dark."

Porthos felt guilt wash over him. Perhaps what he said was unfair. He had never seen Athos show any animosity towards any member of the regiment. Still. The silence was uncomfortable enough that he only thought about getting back to Paris soon, and removing these damn shackles to be rid of this man.

They moved away from the stream, taking note of the direction the sun was setting so they could begin moving towards Paris and not just away from danger. They found a rocky hillside with a small overhang that offered at least some protection if the weather were to change. After making sure there weren't any animals already burrowed in it, Porthos crawled in first, Athos awkwardly side-crawling in after him. They curled up beside each other to conserve warmth. The sun had just set but already the temperature was dropping.

Despite the temperatures and the hardness of the ground, Porthos found himself drifting off almost immediately.

* * *

Athos awoke to stiff limbs and frozen toes. Porthos was snoring softly behind him and he could feel the body heat from the larger man seeping into his back.

For a moment he wasn't sure what had woken him. Then he heard it-the distant howling of dogs on the scent.

He shot awake, banging his head on the large rock above him. He groaned, pulling on the chains. Porthos came awake immediately, concern in his eyes. "What's wrong?" He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, and Athos regarded him. Maybe Porthos' head injury was more serious than he'd thought. Porthos' concern was quickly replaced with confusion as he looked around them.

"Dogs," growled Athos. "We have to run, break the scent."

Porthos just nodded, the soldier in him automatically responding to orders instead of wasting precious time questioning them. They pulled themselves out from under the overhang.

Athos got to his feet, forgetting for a moment one was injured. As soon as he put weight on it, a sharp spike of pain shot through the bottom of his foot and up his calf. He hissed, rapidly picking his foot up. Porthos looked at him for a minute, before they were both distracted by the sound of dogs again. "They sound only a few leagues off," Porthos said. He turned towards Athos. "Think you can run?"

Athos nodded. "No choice." He gingerly put his foot down, and Porthos matched his pace with his own. Soon, they were limping along, the sounds of dogs behind them. They headed East, but the decided lack of streams was beginning to worry Athos. The dogs sounded like they were directly behind them now, still some distance off. Athos' uninjured foot was beginning to feel scratched and cut up, but every time he put his left foot down the sharp spike of pain flared up.

A close bark interrupted his thoughts, and he and Porthos simultaneously picked up their pace. His fingers itched with the desire to put a weapon in his hands, and it was only now that he felt ultimately exposed. He reached down and grabbed a sturdy branch as they went by. The howls were getting closer now. Athos didn't think it sounded like a big group, but he didn't doubt their masters were far behind.

The rustle of foliage behind him was all the warning he had before something hit him from behind, tearing him off his feet. He felt through the chains Porthos tumbling down after him. The wind rushed out of him as the weight of the larger man fell on top of his back, and his face was pushed into the dirt below him. He tried to pull himself forward, but his arm was yanked back as Porthos struggled with something he could hear snarling. He heard a sharp whine and a crack before the beast was silent, but another one had burst through the bushes to their left and Athos saw it latch onto Porthos out of the corner of his eye.

Porthos cried out, and Athos heard the sound of ripping and tearing. His stomach turned when he realized it was the sound of both leather and flesh. He thrusted his stick backward and was rewarded with a whine as he hit something solid. He managed to twist himself around onto his back and saw the dog, a mean-looking bear of a thing, still had Porthos by his free arm. Porthos' other arm was trapped underneath Athos' body, leaving the other man defenseless.

Athos surged upward, swinging the branch as he did so right into the dog's ribs. With a bark it let go of Porthos who let out a pained gasp. Athos got to his knees, swinging the branch again and making the dog run off.

He turned to Porthos in the brief respite. Porthos' face was scrunched up in pain, and he was cradling his injured arm to his chest. Athos could see the blood soaking through his jacket, but didn't have a chance to look closer as he heard more barking.

"On your feet," Athos said, helping up Porthos as gingerly as he could. Porthos gave a low whine of pain, but stood up, recognizing the seriousness of the situation. Just as he did, three dogs burst through the foliage. Athos moved so he was between them and Porthos, his stick held at the ready.

The first dog leapt at him and he swung the branch downwards across its spine. The second ran around to his side, and Athos turned, continuing to shield Porthos. He clipped it on the rear as it ran by to discourage it. Athos recofnized the third as the one who had gotten Porthos before. Its muzzle still was covered in the Musketeer's blood. The first dog leapt at Athos again. He swung the branch, but the alpha dog went for his legs. Athos only managed to block his teeth from impacting his leg, but the force still bowled him over.

Splinters flew as the dog tore viciously at the branch, its claws digging into Athos' stomach and thighs. The chain attaching him to Porthos was being tugged, but he had to hold onto the branch with both hands or the dog would overwhelm him.

Suddenly, a huge rock entered his vision, hitting the dog in the side of the head and making it fall to the ground with a cry. Athos looked up, seeing Porthos holding the rock with his mangled arm. As he watched, he swung his injured limb back and hurled the rock at another dog with a savage cry of pain and anger. The dog cried out as it was hit in the ribs, scampering off with the only other animal that was alive.

Porthos held out his good hand, breathing harshly. His face had lost some of its color. Athos took the offered hand. "You alrigh'?" Porthos asked with a pained gap.

Athos nodded. "Your arm?"

Porthos shook his head. "Not here. Need…need to put some distance between us."

Athos gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We will get to Paris soon, we'll get help there."

They limped along at a slower pace. The fight had left both of them drained. They were cold, hungry, and both injured. They eventually chanced upon another stream sometime in the late morning. Athos nearly collapsed into it. His foot was now a constant fire that hinted at infection, and was sapping his strength quicker then he'd like to admit.

Porthos fell to his knees next to Athos. "Let me see your arm," Athos said gently. Porthos held it out to him. Athos could feel him shaking slightly when he took the offered limb, trying to peel back the sleeve of his jacket and shirt as gently as he could. Porthos bit his lip to stifle a gasp of pain, and Athos stopped his own wince of sympathy.

Porthos' arm was mangled, no two ways about it. Blood covered the entire thing, darker spots indicating the tears that the dog's teeth had ripped through the skin and muscle. There was even one spot where a tooth had gone so deep Athos could see the white of bone, contrasting sharply against the deep blood red.

"Is it-" Athos swallowed thickly. Usually blood didn't faze him but this was bad. "Is it broken?"

Porthos had caught sight of his own injury for the first time, and his face had lost some more color. "I'm…not sure…" he trailed off. Athos recognized the sight of a man on the verge of collapse. His face had drained of blood very quickly, and he was breathing quickly through his nose.

"Lie down," Athos urged, pushing gently on Porthos' chest. The big man did, and Athos began cupping water out of the stream to run down Porthos' arm.

Porthos flinched when the water hit his wounds, and choked off a moan. Athos did his best to clean the wound quickly, before he tore more of his shirt and wrapped it around Porthos' arm. His arm didn't feel broken, but at one point he squeezed the bone and Porthos bit back a yell. It was good the bone wasn't in pieces, but it was probably cracked, causing Porthos intense pain on top of the shredded muscles.

Porthos drifted off while Athos was wrapping the wound. Athos gently rested Porthos' arm on top of the other man's stomach, letting him rest and regain his strength, even if he knew the respite would only be brief. Athos took the opportunity to unwrap his foot and soak it in the stream again. He stiffened as the water entered his foot before the cold stream blessedly numbed it.

He sat there for a while, thinking over the events of the past day. Oddly enough, he realized he and Porthos made a good team. They automatically had each other's backs, despite whatever misconceptions they had initially had about each other. They fought well together. Athos wasn't sure who else in the garrison could have made it as far as they already had. Athos had never once doubted they would escape. He and Porthos had just simply…done what needed to be done.

With a sigh he took his foot out of the water, intent on moving on. He began to wrap it. "Porthos," he called. "Wake up. Time to keep moving."

Porthos moaned slightly, before his eyes fluttered open. For the second time that day, he seemed confused when he looked around him. He lifted his good hand to his face, but froze halfway there. His eyes shot to the manacles and Athos saw pure, raw fear flash across his face.

Porthos scrambled backwards, eyes on the chain like it was a snake.

Athos darted forwards, gripping his leg. "Porthos! Porthos, listen to me!"

Porthos' eyes flew to his face and recognition filled them. Porthos took a few deep, shuddering breaths, composing himself.

Athos was thoroughly unnerved. He didn't know Porthos well, but he'd known him long enough and he'd never seen the man like this before. It made sense, though. The one thing Porthos couldn't fight. Bigotry, fear, hate, and a corrupt institution.

"Not slavers," Porthos whispered rubbing a hand over his face.

"No." Athos gripped the other man's leg, and Porthos seemed to take some comfort in the contact.

After a minute, Porthos spoke. "Sorry," he breathed. "Sorry. It's…things are hazy."

"No need to be sorry," Athos spoke. "How are you feeling?"

Porthos grimaced. "Been better, but I can keep goin'," he said tiredly. He held up his wrapped arm. "Thanks."

"Not a problem." Athos waved it off.

Porthos got to his feet, and helped Athos up. Porthos' face had regained most of its color, but already Athos could see blood seeping through Porthos' bandages.

As for himself, he could already feel his strength waning with the afternoon sun.

* * *

Porthos' wound was agonizing. Athos' limp had become more pronounced in the past few hours, but Porthos also felt unsteady on his feet. Heat radiated throughout his body from the wound, and he thought he could sense the beginnings of a fever. He felt light-headed as well, the kind that came from blood loss coupled with pain.

They had stopped a few times for water, which helped, but it was getting to be the end of the day and they were still in the forest.

Athos had proven a dependable companion in a crisis. He kept a cool head, could handle himself in a fight, and hadn't once given Porthos reason to question his loyalties. In fact, Porthos had been surprised when after he'd been injured Athos had selflessly put himself between Porthos and the danger.

Porthos wished he'd been able to keep as cool a head later. He'd been half-awake, and saw only shackles. His worst fears had come to light, before he had fully processed what was going on. It was shameful for a man to be afraid of a hypothetical, but he supposed the horror stories of what he had heard as a child stuck with him. His mother had been a slave, and he supposed it was a legacy he could not shake.

He wished Athos had not seen. Porthos had worked hard enough that he had little to be afraid of in this world anymore. As a Musketeer he was almost assured a good death. He served honorably. He was comfortable. He had companions. Athos, as probable nobility, would think his fears a tragic side effect of his class and race. Use them to define him. He was more than his fears.

He grunted. Why did he care what Athos thought of him anyway? It had never mattered before what other people thought of him. But somehow now things felt different.

Athos stumbled and Porthos caught his arm. "Let's rest," Porthos muttered. His arm burned more fiercely than ever.

"One moment," Athos said, tilting his chin downward. He was clearly listening to something and Porthos strained to hear it. Over the slight gugrgling of the stream, he could hear it; the louder rush of a waterfall.

"That river leads to Paris," Porthos breathed.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Athos' lip. "Indeed. We are not far now." They followed the stream a few hundred yards to where it joined the river. A few hundred feet after that, the river swiftly turned into a roaring waterfall.

They stood near the top, contemplating how to get down. The cliffs seemed to end in a rocky ravine on either side of the river and neither of them were in a position to rock climb. Athos turned around idly. Porthos turned to look in the same direction just out of habit. As he did, he caught the glint of something unnatural in the woods.

Athos seemed to have seen it too, because the next thing Porthos knew, Athos kicked out his leg. The motion yanked Porthos' foot out from under him. Porthos fell to one knee as the sharp crack of a bullet sounded through the air. He saw Athos stumble as in slow motion, and Porthos knew he was already too close to the edge. Porthos himself was already unsteady, and he could do nothing but cry out in horror as Athos tumbled over the edge, bringing Porthos with him.

They hit the water with a force that took Porthos' breath away. He was pulled immediately under the surface, tumbling around in darkness as the current took him. He could feel Athos being pulled in different directions and he only had time to thank God they were attached because otherwise he was certain he'd lose his companion.

The water was icy cold, numbing his injuries but also sapping his strength. He was thrown against jagged rocks. At one point, he felt something tear through the bandages and into his arm, making him cry out unconsciously and lose precious air. His head crashed against another rock, dazing him momentarily.

He opened his eyes, and caught light above him. He kicked towards it, a task made difficult by the fact one side of his body was tethered to a seemingly dead weight. Lungs burning, head pounding, muscles screaming, he pulled upward savagely with his injured arm, each stroke sending fresh waves of agony through his whole body.

With a desperate surge, he broke the surface, sucking air into his lungs painfully. He grabbed hold of the chains binding his wrist to Athos', and pulled upwards quickly. Athos' head broke the surface next to his, and the other man managed a weak cough before slipping back under. Porthos pulled him to his own chest. They were clear of the waterfall, and drifted lazily downstream. But Porthos was already beginning to feel the cold.

"Athos! Help me kick, we need to get to shore!" He started kicking towards the nearest shoreline, not sure if Athos could even understand him. The manacle bit into his ankle, but he felt a few weak kicks from the other man.

It became shallow enough that Porthos could stand. He supported Athos under the shoulders, mostly pulling the other man the rest of the way to dry land. Once there, he lay Athos down on the ground. His own vision was swimming slightly, and it was hard to focus. He took a deep breath to steady himself, trying to study Athos.

The other man was pale and shivering violently. It took Porthos a moment to find what he was looking for- the blood had been washed away during their fall into the river, but as soon as they were out of the water, Athos' shoulder was sluggishly bleeding. Porthos rolled the other man slightly, but saw no wound on his back which indicated the bullet was still in his body.

"Damn it," he muttered, holding his own injured limb close to his chest. He may have been able to get the bullet out himself, but he didn't have any tools and he didn't want to dig his fingers into Athos' flesh and risk more damage. "Damn it!" He said, a little louder this time. "Why did you do that, you bloody idiot?" Porthos tore away part of his trouser leg, wadding it up and pressing it against Athos' shoulder.

Athos made a pained grimace, flinching slightly at the pressure. He didn't seem entirely aware of where he was. Porthos kept flashing back to Athos pushing him out of the way, to take a bullet for him. "Bloody hell…" Porthos wiped a hand over his eyes, the chains clinking loudly in the silence as he moved his arm.

They were suddenly too loud. These damn things, imprisoning them, but also making them depend on each other. They called up Porthos' worst fears. They made him responsible for a man's fate. They saved his life. Nothing should have that much power over his life, or this other man's.

He hated them.

He grabbed a nearby stone about the size of his fist, and swung it down onto the chains. The impact sent a wave of pain through his injured arm, but he lifted the rock over his head and swung it down. The chains held. He raised it above his head a third time. And a forth. And a fifth, getting faster each time even though his arm protested each movement, each hit.

"Porthos?" a raspy voice asked.

Porthos dropped the stone, realizing each hit must have also sent a wave of pain through the other man. "Sorry, I'm so sorry, Athos. Are you in pain?"

"No, no…but all the same I'd…appreciate if you stopped."

Porthos let out a small chuckle at that. "Sorry mate. Won't happen again."

"Understandable." His eyes drifted closed and he took a shuddering breath, shaking slightly. Porthos frowned. They were both freezing and he was worried about the amount of blood that Athos had lost. He thought they could get to Paris in time to get him treated but the sun was setting again. Porthos could feel his wet clothes sapping the warmth from his body. Ordinarily he would have gotten out of them immediately, but they had no supplies.

"If we follow the river, it should lead us right to the city. I think we can do that in the dark," he said.

Athos moaned a reply. He was shaking and pale, and Porthos made the decision to walk through the darkness. "Time to walk," he said, lifting Athos into a sitting position. Athos panted heavily, trying to catch his breath. As he did, Porthos tore another strip of cloth off his own trousers, wrapping Athos' wound tightly. Porthos' own injured arm still had bandages, but they were soaking wet and starting to fall off. He sighed, getting to his feet and reaching out his good hand to help Athos. The other man took it, but his grip was weak and Porthos ended up doing most of the work hauling him to his feet. Porthos draped the arm that was attached to his own over his shoulders, gently holding Athos around the waist with his bad arm. "Ready?" he asked.

Athos nodded, still breathing harshly. They set off, Athos limping more heavily now. Porthos tried to pay attention to his surroundings. The Spaniard that shot Athos probably wasn't far behind them. He was probably hoping Athos had died, slowing Porthos down so they could still at least capture and interrogate one person.

But as the night went on, Porthos' attention dropped to just holding up Athos and putting one foot in front of the other. Violent tremors racked his body, and he could feel the heat radiating off his arm.

Athos had stopped shivering all together, and was barely picking his feet up now. Porthos had stopped offering words of encouragement long ago, as his own breath became hard to come by.

Athos uttered a pained gasp, suddenly falling to the ground. Porthos didn't have the strength to hold them both up, and fell to his knees alongside Athos. His vision rocked alarmingly, and he swallowed thickly, reaching out for Athos.

"Athos!" Porthos helped roll the other man onto his back. Athos moaned slightly, his eyes unfocused. Porthos tried to look at his wound in the dark, but it just looked like a dark spot with a darker spot spreading out from it.

The whisper of a sword leaving its sheathe was all the warning he had before a sword sliced through the space his head had been a moment before. He turned, growling, seeing one of the Spaniards behind him. He automatically tried to roll to his feet, the chains stopping him before he got too far. He couldn't hold back the distressed noise he made, but kicked his feet out, tripping the other man.

The man dropped the sword and Porthos kicked it out of both their reaches. The Spaniard turned around and leapt onto Porthos, punching him in the face, hard.

Porthos' head had already had just about enough abuse as it could take, and his vision greyed out momentarily. Porthos wasn't one to give up a fight, however. Athos still hadn't moved but Porthos swung the chain attaching their arms up and around the other man's neck. The moment of surprise was all he needed to grab the other man's shoulder with his free hand and use his weight to roll them.

He pulled the chains tighter as he felt the other man kicking out underneath him, but his position was too good. It took a few more moments, but finally the other man's movements stilled, and Porthos crawled off of him, breathing heavily.

This time his vision didn't stop swimming, and his stomach clenched in time to his pounding head. He heaved, but there was little to bring up.

He didn't let himself collapse, instead crawling over to Athos who still hadn't moved. He pulled Athos up, then maneuvered himself so he was kneeling in front of him. He let Athos fall forward onto his back and pulled the other man's arms over his shoulders. He gripped Athos' arms above the manacles so as not to hurt the other man. With his injured arm, he gripped clumsily at Athos' sleeve. He stood up, groaning.

"P-Porthos," Athos' voice whispered in his ear. Porthos just grunted to show that he was listening, but kept moving at a slow pace along the banks of the river. "Stop," Athos whispered. "Y-you can't…"

"Can," Porthos panted. "And will." He put another foot forward. "See?"

Athos didn't reply, and Porthos felt a weight land on his shoulde, along with a wetness spreading across his back. "Hold on, Athos." He took another step forward. "Just hold on."

* * *

Aramis urged his horse forward through the growth of the forest. He had been out searching for Porthos and Athos for over a day. When the other two hadn't made the rendezvous, he had convinced Treville something had gone wrong. Porthos was only late when something went wrong, and even though he didn't know Athos that well, Athos had never failed to keep a schedule (though he wasn't always sober for it).

The men Athos and Porthos were supposed to rendezvous with had come back to Paris with a Spanish spy in tow, who claimed his own regiment had captured some Musketeers on the road. He only knew they had escaped. Treville had assumed they'd be making their way back to Paris, so search parties had spread out through the forests around the city, pushing outwards.

Darkness had fallen, and Treville had agreed with Aramis' request to keep searching. Treville and three other men were a few dozen yards behind him. Aramis could tell Treville was going to call to set up camp soon, but he wasn't ready to give up yet.

His horse snorted, then whickered softly. It was tired, and Aramis knew it didn't like finding its footing in the woods in the dark. He pulled on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop. Aramis sighed in resignation, just sitting on top of the still animal for a moment and looking at the dark forest around him. In the silence, he heard the sound of metal hitting stone.

His head snapped to his left, towards the river. He heard it again. A slow, clinking noise. He drew his pistol as he slid off his horse, moving in the direction of the sound. He followed it, moving to about a hundred yards downriver of the noise. He peeled the branches back slowly.

A slow moving, gigantic form was shuffling along the bank. Aramis frowned, seeing the glint of metal in the moonlight near the top of the figure, but also near the ground and going up to something attached behind his thigh.

Aramis waited for his eyes to adjust, hope surging in his chest. But he knew.

The figure was Porthos.

He rushed out of the bushes. "Porthos! Porthos!"

The larger man flinched at the noise, pausing his steps as Aramis got closer. Aramis' hope turned to fear as he tried to take in the state of his friend in the dark. Porthos was breathing heavily, and Aramis saw he was barefoot. Manacles bit into his wrist and ankles, and now Aramis realized the thing they were attached to was Athos, unconscious on Porthos' back.

He turned back around. "A torch! Bring a torch! I've found them!" He heard an affirmative answer back. "Hurry!" he called as he turned back around. He saw Pothos flinch again at his voice.

"Porthos?" Aramis said quietly. There was no recognition in Porthos' eyes. He heard the running of feet behind him, and glanced backwards to see Treville running at him with a torch in hand. The light illuminated the figures, and it was far worse than Aramis had realized.

Porthos' face was a mess of swollen bruises and cuts. His eyes were glassy and not focused on the world around him. One arm was a mess of blood and bandages, the other was full of angry red sores where the manacles bit into it.

Rage consumed Aramis immediately, but Treville kept his cool. "Porthos, you can let go of Athos now. We'll help you." Treville moved to Porthos' side, as more Musketeers caught up with them.

Porthos blinked again, finally seeming to recognize what was happening. "Aramis?"

"Yes," Aramis gasped in relief, taking a hold of Porthos' shoulders gently. "Can you let go of Athos now?" Treville and another man were gently taking Athos off of Porthos' back.

"He's…he's been shot," whispered Porthos. Aramis glanced him, noting Athos' too-pale face.

"Lockpick, get me a lockpick!" Treville demanded. Another Musketeer fumbled in his belt, as Porthos began tipping forwards. Aramis caught him, feeling and hearing Porthos gasp in pain. Aramis helped lower the larger man to the ground.

As the other Musketeer began opening the locks, Aramis tried to get Porthos to focus on him. Treville was calling for the horses to be brought up. "Porthos, where are you hurt?"

Porthos groaned, and Aramis he could tell he wasn't entirely with him. "Athos. Athos…t-took a bullet…" Porthos ended his thought with a noise of distress. And Athos tried to quiet him down.

"We're taking you both back to Paris. You both are safe now, I promise we'll help you." His voice cracked with emotion as he looked down at his battered friend. "You did well, Porthos. It's alright now. You did well."

Porthos nodded once, his eyes drifting closed.

* * *

It took only a few hours to ride back to Paris, but Porthos and Athos were in terrible condition. Aramis saw to Athos first. The gunshot wound was the most pressing, especially when Aramis found the bullet still in him. On top of cleaning out the wound and stitching it up, his body temperature was also lowered. Treville and some other Musketeers helped keep him warm as Aramis also cleaned the nasty wound in his foot. It would be painful and take a long time to heal. Both the wounds would.

He and Porthos had matching cuts and sores where the manacles had pulled and bit and wedged into the skin on his wrists and ankles. Out of all their injuries, those made Aramis angriest.

Especially when he saw them on his friend. He knew the other man's history and while he wouldn't want to see shackles on anyone he cared about. Knowing the other man's fears and a little about his mother, it was especially infuriating.

The other Musketeers had already worked on warming Porthos up, but the head injury coupled with the coldness of the river had kept him unconscious. Aramis had nearly been sick when he finally got to unwrapping his arm. He could tell the bite marks of an animal. Bruising and tearing were prevalent, while a lot of the cuts still bled sluggishly and oozed puss. Porthos twitched when Aramis pressed on the bones, and he assumed a small crack was possible. Aramis cleaned it, doing his best to wrap it and keep his friend comfortable.

It took Porthos two days to wake up. He was groggy, but they got water into him, and even some food. Athos took longer, only coming awake for minutes at a time. They'd scramble to get water in him, but it was never very much.

Porthos started waking up for longer, and was more lucid. Aramis sat with him, making sure he ate, and waiting patiently for Porthos to tell him something about what happened.

"He saved me," Porthos mumbled one day. "He saved me, and all I could do was…not let him die."

"You did more than not let him die, Porthos. You saved each other."

Porthos glanced down at the floor. "I misjudged him. I've spent my entire life trying to be more than I appear to be, and I misjudged another man for it."

"It's not like he made it easy," Treville's voice came from the doorway.

"Sir," Porthos automatically tried to straighten up, but Aramis put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"It's fine, Porthos. I won't deny, I had put you two together in hopes that you'd see each other in a new light. I'm…glad you did, I suppose."

"He's getting better, Sir," Aramis said.

"Have faith, Porthos. I think you did a lot more for him than you realize."

Porthos nodded, still looking crestfallen.

Treville gave them one last nod, before closing the door and leaving them alone.

* * *

Athos' eyes slipped open.

He knew it wasn't the first time he'd been awake since he got back.

_Got back from what?_

He wasn't exactly sure. But he knew it had something to do with the man in front of him.

Porthos.

Porthos had realized he was awake and was holding a cup of water to his lips. Athos drank. As he did, he found he was actually becoming more aware of the pain which seemed…normal, but unfair all the same.

He sank back into the pillows, trying to breathe evenly. Porthos hesitantly hovered above him, as if unsure of if he was even wanted there. "Um…how are you feeling?"

Athos took in the ugly yellow bruises on Porthos' face, the bandages around both arms. He lifted his own arm, knowing he would find bandages matching Porthos'. He felt the corner of his lip turn up in a sad smile. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry we're detached," he whispered.

Porthos let out a chuckle.

"Did you…get us out?" Athos asked. His memory was foggy at best. He remembered getting shot.

And falling.

Porthos grimaced. "Sorta. I carried you some ways before Aramis and the Captain found us."

"Ah. Then I owe you my life. Multiple times over, I think."

Porthos shook his head. "You'd of done the same. I know that now." Porthos nodded his head at Athos' shoulder. Athos remembered. He had seen the gun, and pushed Porthos out of the way. It had just…seemed like the only natural thing to do.

"Well, thank you, in any case." Athos grimaced as he moved to sit up, so he could look Porthos squarely in the eye. Porthos moved to help, much more sure in his movements now that the air between them was cleared. "Tell me, Porthos. Can I count you among my friends now?"

"Of course!" Porthos genuinely seemed puzzled by the question. "Why?"

"So you can secure me some wine," moaned Athos, head beginning to pound.

Porthos let out a genuine, heartwarming laugh.


End file.
